He knocked on the bathroom door and said, "Want something to eat?"
She didn't answer. He put the key in the lock and opened the door. She was stretched out on the floor, blanket under her, looking up at him, yawning.
"Come out if you're hungry." He closed the door and went to the table and waited for a couple minutes, and when she still wasn't out he scooped up a forkful of eggs and put it in his mouth. He ate the scrambled eggs and pancetta, and when he was finished, wiped the plate clean with a piece of stale bread.
Ten minutes later, the door opened and she appeared, hair pulled back in a ponytail, crossed the room and sat at the table across from McCabe but didn't look at him. She stared at the plate of food, picked up her fork and took a bite of eggs and made a face.
"It's cold," she said.
"That's what happens when hot food sits too long," McCabe said. "You don't come right away."
She picked up the coffee mug and took a sip, eyes looking over the rim at him. She took a bite of her cold eggs and ate them and went back for more. She ate like she was hungry, and drank the coffee and ignored him. He watched her thinking how good she looked first thing in the morning. He said, "How do you like it?"
She didn't say anything, just kept eating.
He waited till she laid her fork on the empty plate and said, "How do I get in touch with Roberto Mazara?"
She glanced at him and said, "I don't know."
"You like it in there," he said indicating the bathroom.
"Because that's where you're going to be spending most of your time."
"Believe me," she said. "He's not going to give you the money."
McCabe said, "Want to bet? I got something of his and he's going to want it back."
"I don't belong to Roberto," she said, "If that's what you are saying."
"As long as he thinks you do," McCabe said.
"He is going to come after you," Angela said. "And he is not going to stop."
"That's okay," McCabe said. "But he better bring the money. All of it."
"I don't think he has all of it," she said. "I'm sure the money has been divided among his men."
McCabe said. "Where's your share? We can start there."
Angela said, "He has not given it to me."
"You're either lying or you're being scammed."
"Who are you, you think you can take on this armed gang?"
"I'm not Chip Tallenger from Greenwich, Connecticut. I'll tell you that. My dad's a retired ironworker living on a pension."
"The story in the newspaper said you were rich."
"I'm not," McCabe said.
"The amount of the ransom seemed insignificant," she said, "to someone so wealthy."
"Did you hear what I said?"
Angela said, "Why do you think I am going to help you?"
"You like sleeping next to the toilet?" McCabe said. He slid a pen and piece of paper across the table to her. "Write down his number."
She crumpled the paper in a ball, threw it at him and missed. He got up and went around the table at her, but she was already on her feet, holding the fork in her fist, arm raised, ready to fight him.
"Put it down." He moved toward her and she tried to stab him. He stepped back, and she came at him, swung again and he blocked her arm and took the fork out of her hand, and dropped it on the floor.
She made a run for the kitchen and he caught her before she got to the doorway, standing behind her, holding her arms. She tried to free herself, tried to kick him. He bent her back and dragged her to the bathroom, pushed her in, and locked the door. She was pounding on the hardwood, yelling in Italian.
There wasn't much he could do with her at the moment, and wasn't much he could do without her. He'd wait till she cooled down and try again.
McCabe went back to the table and picked up the fork. He took the dishes into the kitchen and washed them. He went back into the main room. The pounding had stopped. He stretched out on the couch and fell asleep.
Chapter Nineteen
Ten in the morning, Joey was standing outside the villa smoking a Montecristo No. 4, waiting for Angela. At eleven when she still wasn't there, he called her apartment and got her answering machine. "This is Angela," a breathy voice. "Leave a message. Ciao."
Joey said, "Yo Cuz, you're an hour late. Where the fuck're you at?"
At noon Joey went into his uncle's office. The old boy was sitting on a couch, watching some foreign movie, the mistress, Chiara, sitting next to him, looking bored. "Hey, Unk, something's wrong, Angela was supposed to be here two hours ago."
His uncle glanced at him and paused the movie. "You think something is wrong you don't know her. Angela is never on time in her life. I think she is still asleep." He said it with an edge to his voice.
Joey said, "I'll go surprise her."
His uncle seemed to like the idea. He perked up and yelled Mauro's name and a few seconds later the little guy ran in the room like he was sitting out there waiting to be called. In the faint light Mauro now reminded Joey of Sammy Davis Junior, his build and skin color. Joey grinned, almost laughed out loud, wondering if Mauro could sing and tap dance.
His Unk told Mauro to give Joey a ride into the city. Joey left the old boy in his office with his mistress who looked like she needed attention, wondering now if he should pay her a visit, walk down the hall in the middle of the night, unsheathe the pork sword. Nothing against his Unk, but show her what a hard-on looked like.
In the car, a black Mercedes sedan, he looked across at Mauro behind the wheel. They were still on villa property, cruising on the pebble driveway that had to be a quarter-mile long. Joey said, "You take the oath?"
Mauro glanced over at him with a blank look on his face. This Sicilian hick had no idea what he was talking about. "Poke your finger, spill blood on a sacred image, picture of a saint?" Joey paused, thinking about his old man telling him it was one of the rituals of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra, how they did it in the old country. Then the picture was lit on fire, you had to hold it while you swore to obey the rules of the family.
His dad had said, "May your flesh burn if you fail to keep the oath."
Joey thought it sounded pretty goddamn stupid. He wasn't going to hold a burning piece of paper. His old man had wanted him to be "made," but after what had happened it would be a while, if ever. There was also the law of silence called omerta, his dad said meant don't talk to cops, tell them your business, like he'd tell the police anything about anything. Mauro, the little man, probably took it literally, thought omerta meant don't talk to anyone.
Driving through Rome Joey would point to some ruins and say, "Hey, Mauro, what's that?"
Little fucker'd go, " Vecchia Roma."
Give Joey a smartass two-word answer in Italian. Joey wanted to give him a one-word answer: " Vaffanculo." Fuck you. Or a three-word answer: " Succhiami il cazzo." Suck my dick. That exhausted his knowledge of Italian but had come in handy in his old eastside Detroit neighborhood.
Joey liked looking at monuments and such, but it made him wonder what the Italians had been doing for the past two thousand years. They hadn't built anything close to the Colosseum or the Pantheon, or St Peter's. Most of the people, from what he could see, lived in second-rate apartment buildings outside the city the ancient Romans wouldn't have stepped foot in.
Mauro parked the Benz in front of a cool old building with arched windows and shutters. He could see the Colosseum right there. It looked a lot bigger up close, bigger than Comerica Park where the Tigers played. Bigger than Ford Field too. Jesus, six, seven storys high.
Mauro glanced at him and said, "The residence of the signorina."
That's the most he'd ever said at one time, got five words out of him — might be a Guinness Record. Joey also liked that he called Angela the signorina, like she was Italian royalty or something. But then again, as the daughter of Don Gennaro, maybe she was.
Peter Leonard
All He Saw Was the Girl
Chapter Twenty
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McCabe went out and got in the Fiat and took the steep driveway down to a country road that wound around to the main road, Viale Fiume. The weather had changed, heavy dark clouds hung over the mountains as he drove through the hills, past sheep and horses grazing, passing through La Quercia, a village, arriving in Viterbo a few minutes later. He was surprised to see a modern mirrored-glass building on Via Cassia right outside the medieval city. He drove through Porta Romana, a giant archway built in the wall that surrounded the city, took a series of narrow one-way streets and parked on Via Roma in the center of the business district.
McCabe had seen photographs of Viterbo, but had never been there. He was surprised how big it was and how crowded. He walked downhill to Piazza del Plebiscito. Studied the two arcaded buildings that made up Palazzo dei Priori, built in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Stopped in the tourist office and picked up a street map of the city. He sat outside at a cafe in the square, ordered espresso and sipped it, studying the map, looking for a place to meet Mazara and make the exchange, Angela for the money.
He walked to Piazza del Gesu and north to Piazza San Lorenzo, the religious center. He went south to Piazza della Morte, Death Square, which somehow seemed appropriate, but was too small, too remote. From there he took a series of winding streets to Piazza San Pellegrino in the medieval quarter, and back to Piazza del Plebiscito.
He stood staring at the buildings and got an idea, decided what he was going to do and how he was going to do it. He’d meet Mazara and ask for the money. Mazara would hand him the soccer bag, and he would tell them where to find Angela. But where could he keep her that was out of sight, but still close by? The car was probably the only option. But she wasn't going to lie there quietly in the back, so where else could he hide her? It was a little more complicated than he thought. He considered calling Chip, ask for his help, but he didn't want to involve anyone else. It was his problem and he'd handle it.
Now he had to buy some food. It would be a couple days before he got everything organized. He found a butcher shop, a macellria, and bought slices of Cacciatora and Felino, and a whole chicken with its head still attached. Bought a loaf of ciabatta at a panetteria. Bought fresh mozzarella at a formaggeria and tomatoes at a vegetable stand in the market. He forgot the wine and went to an enoteca and bought a bottle of Chianti, and a Tuscan Chardonnay. He carried his packages to the car, opened the hatchback and put them in.
Angela thought she heard a car and looked out the window. McCabe's Fiat was moving down the hill toward the road that went one way to Viterbo, and the other way to a village called Bagnaia. Beyond the road she could see the muted rectangle shapes of houses across the valley, a smoky haze hanging low over the hills, the vista reminding her of the Tuscan countryside.
It was 1:30, only thirteen hours since he had taken her from the apartment, but seemed much longer, like days had passed, trapped in the room, her prison cell, pacing back and forth, ten feet from wall to wall, anxious, frustrated, going crazy.
She pictured McCabe sitting on the bed, waiting for her as she walked in the bedroom, taking her down, and taping her hands and feet. She'd had a panic attack wrapped in the tarp. She could not move and had trouble trying to breathe, heart pounding, overcome by anxiety. Thinking of her mother helped calm her as it always did, helped her through tense situations. Feeling her mother's gentle touch, hearing her soothing voice, like she was a little girl again.
Angela had been asleep when he slid her out of the car and carried her in the house, waking when he unwrapped the tarp, drenched in sweat as if she had stepped out of her bath. He kidnapped her and then apologized, saying he had no choice, no other way to get her out of the apartment. Thinking back she liked that and was surprised when he brought her a pillow and blanket. And he had continued to surprise her, this student who was not afraid to challenge a Mafia gang. She admired his toughness and determination, but what chance did he have of succeeding? None. What he was doing seemed foolish and naive. He had been lucky, but his luck was going to run out.
Her cousin Joey would be wondering what happened to her. He would say something to her father, and her father would say you can never count on Angela. She is always late. It was true. She had been late her whole life.
Mazara would have called looking for her by now, and had probably stopped by her apartment, and let himself in. She had given him a key, something she now regretted. He would make himself comfortable, drink beer and watch a football match on television. He would think she was in the city, shopping, or having lunch. It wouldn't be an issue until tonight or tomorrow when she still had not returned his calls or returned to the apartment.
Standing at the door, she moved the handle up and down. It was locked. Of course, it was locked, and the door was heavy and solid. She looked around the room for something to jam in the keyhole to try to unlock it. There was a brass doorstopper screwed into the baseboard molding. She unscrewed it and pulled the rubber cap off the end and tried to stick it in the keyhole, but it was too big.
Angela unfastened her belt, took it off and folded the buckle away from the clasp and stuck the clasp in the keyhole. She moved it around trying to find the pin. She tried for ten minutes and quit, frustrated, throwing her belt on the floor. She turned on the faucet and put her hand under it and scooped water up to her mouth, drank and turned off the water.
She looked out the window and saw a man walking along the road at least a hundred meters away. She opened the window as far as it would go and yelled, "Signore… can you hear me? Help!" She said it again, but he was too far. He continued on his way, never glancing in her direction.
She looked in the mirror, annoyed, irritated, angry at herself for letting this happen. She went over and picked up the belt, bent the buckle back and stuck the clasp in the keyhole again, moving it in a circular motion, doing this for almost fifteen more minutes, trying to find the pin until her hand ached, too tired to continue. She stretched her arms over her head and bent down and touched her t-s.
Angela was thinking about her nanny, Carmella whose father was a locksmith from Siena. He had taught Angela how to set a pin, saying, you reach in the lock with something long and sharp, a piece of metal, and find the pin that's binding the most and push it up until you feel it set. That's how you pick a lock. She had tried it the one time and was able to do it, but that was long ago.
She stuck her belt clasp in the lock again, moving it to the right edge and then the left. She pushed as hard as she could and thought she felt something move.
Chapter Twenty-one
Sharon's boss called his cell phone. He didn't recognize the number and answered it. Her name was DeAnn Forbes. They'd met a couple times, but he didn't know her very well.
DeAnn said, "I'm worried about Sharon, we all are. Is she all right?"
"Stressed out. Just needs some time off." He had to be careful what he said.
"Imagine my surprise," DeAnn said, "when I got an email saying she was taking a leave of absence. I couldn't believe it. Sharon's our top rep and I had to try to explain to our clients what was going on and didn't have a clue. Ray, can you help me out, can you tell me what the hell's going on?"
What was he going to say? He'd been kicked out of the Secret Service, went home and Sharon wasn't there, and based on the mail and phone messages, she hadn't been around for days. He was thinking about the article in the Free Press about the guy who reported his wife missing. She worked in Puerto Rico during the week and came home on weekends to see her husband and two kids. The husband said they'd had an argument and his wife decided to go back to Puerto Rico a day early. The husband said she was picked up in a dark sedan. He didn't know anything more.
Two weeks later the Macomb County Sheriff's Department went to his house with a search warrant and found the wife's torso in a garbage can in the garage. The husband confessed he'd cut up her body in his dad's machine shop and strewn her body parts in a wooded area behind their house. A detective working the case said, when the wif
e's missing the husband is always the main suspect.
Ray said, "Sharon will call you, explain everything when she's ready."
DeAnn said, "Does she have cancer, can you tell me that?"
Ray said, "She's not dying." He hoped she wasn't.
DeAnn said, "Tell her we love her and she's welcome back whenever she wants."
Ray was suspicious, didn't believe it. Sharon would've called, not sent an email. That wasn't like her. She was conscientious and responsible, loved her job, and made a lot of money, more than he did and he was well paid for a federal agent. It didn't seem plausible that she'd just up and leave with someone like Joey Palermo, either. But she had to be lonely, starved for attention and affection. He certainly hadn't helped the situation. She was alone most of the time and when he came home he made her miserable. He couldn't see it before or maybe he didn't want to stop and consider her point of view. It was as if his life had been out of focus and now everything was in perfect register. He wanted her back and wondered if what he was feeling was possessiveness or love. Did he still love her? Did he ever?
But if she planned to go away with Joey she would've told someone, wouldn't she? Her sister? Her friends? The way she did it didn't make sense. That's why Ray had his doubts. Until he knew better he'd have to assume something was wrong, something had happened to Sharon.
He drove downtown to the McNamara Building, where he'd worked for the first two years as an agent. Parked in an open lot across from the office, went in the building and asked for Jim Teegarden.
Teeg came down and got him, shook his hand and said, "Good to see you, Ray. This take you back?"
"Deja vu all over again."
Teeg was compact and meticulous, dark hair going gray, wearing a blue Oxford-cloth shirt with heavy starch, gold cuff links, and a designer tie. They took an elevator up to the tenth floor, a bullpen of cubicles where Ray had worked. He said, "Looks exactly the same. Like I walked out yesterday."
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